In Search of Family
by PaperGardener
Summary: His words died as he saw her face, and the horrible truth struck him. It was his Coco, staring up at him with large familiar eyes in a skeletal face, bright purple swirls on each cheek. All he could think was, 'you shouldn't be here.'


In a short time, Coco's search for her father had turned into a nightmare.

"I just need to go back home! Please, if I could just—"

"No ticket, no boarding," the train agent said.

"I already told you, my bag was stolen. I don't have any money. Please, my Mamá will be worried. Please _Señor_ , it's just—"

" _¡Ay, fuera!"_ he cried, waving his hand. "We don't want beggars here!"

There came a long shrill whistle that sent a chill through her, as the huge train in front of her surged forward before it slipped out of sight. Soon she stood alone in the emptying train station, holding her shawl tight around her shoulders. Already the sky was darkening, and in a few hours it would be truly night and she had nowhere to go.

She never should have left Santa Cecilia.

It had been nine years since her father had left. Soon she would be fourteen, almost a grown woman, and she had thought she was old enough to set out and look for him, especially with the war over. If she brought him home then her Mamá would be happy and sing again and they could be a whole family, just like before. Even if not, she had to at least talk to him. If he really didn't love them anymore, she had to hear him say it.

So she had saved up all her money, snuck out late one night, and took a train to Mexico City where his last letter had come from. Even if he wasn't there, surely someone could tell her something. But even after searching the city for two days she had found nothing. He wasn't there, and no one knew where he had gone. Then everything went wrong, and she found herself penniless, alone, and lost in a strange city.

Days passed, the winter nights were cold, and she sold her shawl for a little money. The cold dry air of the mountains made her lips chap and bleed, and her throat ache. Sometimes when she stood the world spun and she would have to lean hard onto something until the feeling passed. Her hands shook, and she would wander about the streets and markets, watching for any scrap of food she might find. It was never enough.

Her only hope was finding her Papá, or at least someone who might know him and would take pity on her. If she could find him, maybe she'd be okay. She had been told that he may have played at a hotel not far away, and so she went there. Somehow it seemed like her last hope.

" _Perdóneme_ ," she said, coming up to the older woman behind the counter, who immediately looked suspicious at the sight of her unwashed face and travel-stained clothes. "I-I'm looking for someone. Did… did Ernesto de la Cruz ever play here? Years ago, I mean?"

The woman's face lit up. "Oh, de la Cruz! Yes, he did! Yes, yes, come over here. _Mira,"_ she said, coming from around the desk towards a wall with a large statue of the Virgin and photos of famous men who had been there.

"Actually, _Señora_ , I'm looking for my father, Héctor Rivera. He played with de la Cruz. I-I have a photo of him, look…" She pulled out the two parts of the photo that she had kept despite everything. "Do you recognize him? Was he here?" _Please_ , she thought, holding her breath.

The woman considered, and then shook her head. "I remember de la Cruz playing with another young man, but this was many years ago. I don't know who he was or what happened to him. I'm sorry."

Coco felt her throat tighten as she struggled not to break down, her chest aching. She was never going to find him.

"Oh. Thank you, _Señora_ ," she whispered, staring hard at the floor to hide her burning eyes. He wasn't there. She had searched and searched and _no one_ knew where he was. She was so tired, and she had no place to sleep.

" _Niña_? Are you okay?" the woman said, following her to the door.

Coco nodded, yet the woman turned her by the shoulders before laying a hand over her forehead, and then touched her cheek. "Your lips are blue," she muttered, which surprised Coco. "And you have a fever. Where are your parents? You shouldn't be out like this."

"They're… they're not here," she murmured. "I left my home in Santa Cecilia to look for my Papá, but I couldn't find him. And then someone stole my bag, and I don't know where to go, so I… I can't…" She was struggling to breathe, choking in great gasps as she brushed her hands over her eyes.

"All right, _querida_ ," the woman said, leading her gently down a quiet little hallway, and set her down upon a narrow bench beneath a window. "You wait right here. I'm off work in a little bit and we'll get you somewhere to sleep for the night."

Coco nodded dumbly and accepted the cup of water pressed into her hands, feeling exhausted and somewhat dizzy. It grew darker outside, and colder, and Coco must have fallen asleep because she was awakened when the woman lightly shook her shoulder. Together they walked down winding streets, talking a little about her home and family. She was led up flights of stairs that left her shaking and weak, and then to a small, busy apartment filled with people and children who stared at her curiously.

The woman—Señora Dominguez—pushed back against the many questions and sat her down in the kitchen, followed by stares all the way. From the other room Coco could hear what sounded like an argument, interrupted once by a child's squalling. Eventually Señora Dominguez returned, followed by an older, stern woman.

"See?" she said, waving a hand. "Do you think she's faking this? And a fever?"

"I said I believe you," the older woman replied irritably, before turning her attention to Coco. "We've talked and agreed to get you a train ticket home."

Coco's breath stuttered in her chest, but this time it wasn't because it hurt. "Really?"

"Yes," she said more kindly, coming closer. "Now you just need to get better and get your strength back up, all right? This fever will pass and you'll be home before you know it."

Coco dutifully took sips of warm spiced soup, and then the vile spoonful of oil that the woman said would make her better. When night wore on she was given a space in the corner and a blanket was tucked around her, even though she was already too warm, her clothes sticking to her skin. Soon the home grew dark and quiet. Coco asked that they leave a candle lit, and it kept vigil with her as the night slowly passed.

It was hard to breathe.

Every time she thought of that she refocused her mind on the thought of _home_. She was going home. She would see her Mamá again, and her uncles, and her room with the window where she could see the mountains that turned blue as night settled. Even if her Mamá was angry, that'd be okay; she would accept any punishment, pay any price, so long as she could see her family again. She would pray every day, and never disobey her mother again; do anything, as long as she could go home. Everything would be okay.

 _I am about to die_.

Her eyes grew burning hot at that thought, and she blinked hard and held her mouth shut to hold back the whimper. She was going home. She was going to be okay.

 _I am going to die here._

That wasn't true. A tear slowly moved down the side of her face and she didn't try to brush it away, but stared hard at the ceiling. A small whine escaped before the noise hardened and settled in her throat until she thought she might choke.

 _I won't ever see Mamá again_.

That was a lie. She was going to see her again. Soon. As soon as she got better. Her chest hurt. It ached, and she gasped for breath and twisted under the thin blanket, too warm and yet shivering.

 _I won't be able to sing Papá's song again_.

He'd be disappointed in her. She had promised him. When she closed her eyes, the world seemed darker upon opening them, the little golden light casting dark shadows upon the walls. There came a memory of when she was younger and had found her mother in the kitchen late one night, head bent over into her hands and quietly sobbing by candlelight. She never wanted to see her like that again. She had to go home. Her Mamá would be so upset.

 _I'm sorry._

She couldn't get enough air through her gasping sobs, even as she struggled to hold them back. No one came, and she wasn't sure how much time passed in that dark little room. She wished it would be morning already.

What if she never saw another thunderstorm? She never had her first kiss. Little Pepita would miss her if she didn't come back. Her Mamá was going to need help with the spring orders. She had to go home. She had to. Her chest ached; she couldn't stop shivering.

 _I want to go home_.

She should have kissed Julio when he gave her that flower. She should have hugged her Mamá that night and told her how much she loved her.

Gasping and shaking, she brought an arm up and laid it over her wet eyes so no one could see her crying, as the candle beside her flickered and wavered.

 _I don't want to die_.

It hurt to breathe.

* * *

Héctor gazed up at the tall, neatly painted sign that read 'Arrivals,' and found himself unable to move.

 _I can't do this_.

What would she look like? Desperately he summoned every little memory of her laugh, her smiling face, her twin braids tied with ribbon. It had been only been nine years. She was still just a child. She shouldn't…

Something sat dark and heavy in his chest, and he realized he was afraid. If he broke down then, he might not find his way out of that despair. Except he had to be there for her. She needed him. With a deep, deep breath he stepped forward, aware of the deep fog in his mind and in his bones. Yet a blur of words kept pushing through:

 _You weren't supposed to die._

There were many people there, some in large gatherings full of shouts and laughter, while other groups stood solemn and quiet, holding each other and speaking softly. He walked through it all, feeling as lost and alone as when he had first arrived in the Land of the Dead. As he gazed about, a terrible pounding grew in his skull, terror and anxiety rising like a storm. He didn't want to be there, or to see his daughter, and yet…

He stopped. There in the corner, far from everyone else, he saw a little girl sitting on a narrow wooden bench, her feet pulled up tight and her head upon her knees. That terrible crescendo in his head fell silent, and the world stilled, almost tilting.

She was so small.

The rest of existence faded; it was like stepping into a dream. She sat there, silent and very still, and didn't notice him until he gently touched her shoulder.

" _Mija_?"

She jumped with a sharp gasp, pressing back against the wall as she planted her feet hard on the ground, staring up in terror.

"Ah, hey! It's okay, it's okay!" he said quickly, kneeling down before her. What must he look like to her? A strange, talking skeleton? He had forgotten. He wasn't thinking. "I'm sorry, it's all right, I… I'm…"

His words died as he saw her face, and the horrible truth struck him. It was his Coco, staring up at him with large familiar eyes in a skeletal face, bright purple swirls on each cheek.

 _You shouldn't be here_.

He watched, unspeaking, as she gazed at him, cautious, almost hopeful. Then…

" _Papá?"_

That word, so soft and yearning, was what broke him. When he next managed to choke in a breath, she was in his arms, holding tight as if she might never let go. He couldn't breathe.

"Coco, I…" The words caught in his chest, and he found himself unable to speak.

" _Lo siento_ ," she murmured, the words almost too soft to catch. "Papá, I-I didn't…"

"It's okay…"

"No, no, I…" A sob shuddered through her, and she buried her face into his jacket. "I didn't want to die," she whimpered, and then broke into sobs, so deep and heart wrenching that he thought it might destroy her.

He tried to speak, to comfort her, but couldn't. This wasn't okay. Nothing would ever be okay. With shaking arms he only held her tighter, hoping that she might somehow understand all of the things he didn't know how to say. He couldn't fix this. But he had to try. If his daughter had to weep, at least she could do it there in his arms. She didn't have to mourn alone. Closing his eyes tight against the fierce burning, he forced himself to breathe.

"Hey… it's going to okay," he said, praying that it was the truth. "I'm here. It'll be all right. You're safe."

He quietly spoke to her and slowly, little by little, she calmed down, her cries growing softer. With a sniff she eventually pulled away and brushed at her cheeks on instinct, one hand clutched at the fabric of his jacket as if afraid to let go. He sat on the bench and she quietly sat beside him, one trembling hand moving to hold tight to his. When he looked to her again, she was staring up at him, her brows furrowed.

"I don't understand," she said hesitantly, her eyes lingering on his face, reaching out to trace the markings on his cheeks. "Why are you here?"

"What, I… _mija_ , I died," he said quietly. "I died years ago, soon after I left."

"You… oh. Then… that's why you didn't come home," she muttered as realization dawned. "That's why I couldn't find you. You were here. You…"

Fresh grief overtook her, but this time it wasn't for herself.

"You died," she whispered before putting a hand over her mouth. "Papá, you died! I-I didn't know…"

"It's okay—"

"You died and I didn't do anything! I-I never lit a candle up for you. I should have made _pan de muertos_ and I didn't!"

"Hey, hey, it's all right. None of that matters."

He didn't understand. He didn't know how she wouldn't have known; surely Ernesto would have told his family. Imelda _had_ to know he had died. But that wasn't important. Not then.

"Don't worry about me," he said, dimly aware that he was watching his daughter grieve for him, even as he held her hand. She was the one who had died; she shouldn't also be the one to grieve. "But why are you here, Coco? You shouldn't be here. It's too soon. You shouldn't…"

His voice cracked and faded as he watched her shrink inwards, as if ashamed. He didn't need to tell her this; she already knew it. She would never get to grow old, or have a family. She would never get to stand at the altar of her wedding, or know the joy of holding her child in her arms. There would never be children, or grandchildren; no one to carry on her story or her name. Everything had been taken from her. The last thing she needed was for him to remind her of that.

"Coco, I…" What could he say to her?

Quietly she pulled her hands away and tried to put them around her stomach, and found she didn't have one anymore. He watched with pain at the sharp panic, the settling recollection, and then acceptance as she instead held her small hands in her lap, the white bone bright against her dark skirt.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

"Hey, there's nothing to apologize for. You didn't do anything wrong."

"No, it… it's my fault," she said softly. "I ran away from home. Mamá and I had a fight because she said you didn't want to be part of our family anymore, and I didn't believe her. So I went to look for you but… but then my bag was stolen, and I couldn't catch the train, a-and then I got sick and… and I… I'm sorry."

 _This is my fault_.

Héctor felt a chill settle over him at the realization, as Coco sniffed and rocked forward, looking so small. Something inside him twisted and cracked; his eyes burned.

 _She died trying to find me_.

"Oh… Coco." He pulled her close, holding tight and then pressed a kiss to her forehead, shutting his eyes against the fierce pain. "I'm so sorry. It wasn't your fault. You were so brave, you tried to do what you thought was right. I'm.. I'm so proud of you, _mija_. And I promise—I promise—that I never stopped loving you. Every day I missed you, I…"

Guilt struck him like a physical pain. He had so badly wanted to see his daughter, but never like this.

This was his fault. If he had just stayed in Santa Cecilia, his daughter wouldn't be dead. They could have remained a happy family. And Imelda… she would have to grieve alone. She would have to bury her daughter. His breath seized in his chest at the thought of a too-small casket lowered into the earth, and Imelda walking through that empty, quiet house.

"I should have told Mamá that I love her," Coco said distantly with a shuddery breath. "I didn't even say goodbye."

"I'm sure she knows. And hey, soon you'll be able to see her again. Next _Dia de Muertos_ you can go back home, just like they said. You can see your Mamá again."

"What… really?" she asked, almost afraid to believe him.

"Sí, of course! When people remember you and put you on an _ofrenda_ , you can cross this great marigold bridge to the living world and visit your family."

"You-you really mean it? I'll be able to go home?"

"Of course! I… well, I mean…" He hesitated. Everyone had promised him the same thing, and he had held onto that false hope with all his soul. They said that his wife would _surely_ put up his photo. That _of course_ he would cross. Those had been lies. But Imelda would surely not forget her daughter. Would that be enough?

"The truth is… I'm not sure. But I do know your mother loves you more than anything in the world, it's just… sometimes things don't happen the way you expect. But if nothing else, one day your Mamá will be here too and then you can give her the biggest hug. I know it."

Coco sat there, thinking for a long moment, and then turned to look at him. "We never put you on an _ofrenda_ ," she said, and his heart sank. "Were you… did you ever get to come home?"

"Don't worry about that," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder, touched, distressed, and almost overwhelmed with pride for his daughter. She still had a good heart; she was still so kind. "I've been doing good. And next year we can both try to cross, okay?"

She nodded solemnly, and he tried not to imagine her disappointment if she was told she couldn't return home, watching as all the other families walked past. Héctor shut his eyes tight against the almost savage surge of emotion within him. For all those years of waiting he had never held onto any anger towards his wife on his behalf, but if Imelda hurt their daughter the same way…

 _Imelda_ , he thought desperately, _no matter what you do to me, let our daughter go home. Please. Don't you dare hurt her like that._

 _Don't let our daughter be forgotten._

Fear and anger rushed through him, until a shout from elsewhere made him blink and look up. He remembered where they were and realized that it was already evening.

"It's getting late," he said, standing and holding out his hand which she quickly took, holding tight as if afraid he might disappear. "Let's go before it gets too dark. Are you hungry? We can pick up something to eat and go home."

"We're… going home?" she said dubiously, and Héctor could tell she was imagining her home of the living world—the clay brick walls, the warm kitchen, her bedroom with the window.

His smile faltered at the thought he was taking her to the cold, dark land of the almost-Forgotten. A place she should never have to go, least of all so soon. She deserved so much more, he thought with a terrible ache. He couldn't protect her. He couldn't save her. She deserved the world, and he couldn't give it.

"Well, we can make it a home. Together," he said softly, squeezing her hand as they walked through the bright-lit streets, the solemn moon high overhead. "I promise."

A great rush of affection moved him and he paused to pull her close and kiss her forehead, and was glad to hear a faint laugh in reply. Good. One day they would be able to laugh again. He knew that soon he would eventually break and grieve for his daughter, but not yet. Coco needed her father, and he would be there for her.

At least she wouldn't be alone.

* * *

A year had passed, and Imelda wanted no part of the _Dia de los Muertos_ celebrations. She would have preferred to spend the time in her workshop. There were so many orders to fill, and designs to work on. If she was working she couldn't think about…

"Imelda?"

Her brother came and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and she didn't look away from the dark, empty room she stood outside.

"We're going to the cemetery," he said softly. "Are you coming?"

"Of course. I'm ready."

Felipe paused, shifting uncomfortably. "Imelda, are… are you sure that you don't want—"

"No," she said quickly. "We don't know for sure. She… she could still come home."

"Right… of course."

She only winced a little when he bent down to kiss her forehead, squeezing her shoulder before he left her alone. For a long moment she didn't move from the doorway, staring into Coco's bedroom that had been quiet for too many nights. Maybe it was her fault. If they hadn't fought, maybe her daughter might still be there.

Her one hope, the only thing that kept her from falling into despair, was that maybe Coco really had found her father and they were together. That would be all right. As long as she was alive and safe, that would be all right. She might still be okay. Until she knew for certain, Imelda refused to put her daughter on their family _ofrenda._

She wasn't going to give up. She couldn't.

"Don't worry, Coco," she whispered, praying her daughter was out there somewhere. Because if not…

Something caught her eye, and she gazed out the window as a black and orange butterfly fluttered against the evening sky. Her breath seized in her chest, something cold pouring through her. It was said they held the spirit of the dead, but that didn't mean...

"I am going to bring you home," Imelda said fiercely, aware of the tear upon her cheek and quickly brushing it away. She had to be strong. She couldn't forsake her daughter.

"I promise."

* * *

Author's Note

This was written for the Coco Loco's 2018 Angst-Off.

It's something I'm considering writing more for, because it's a fascinating potential story, getting to see Héctor and Coco be each other's family in a difficult situation, and overcome that. (and let them both truly grieve, once they're past their shock).

Thank you for reading, and comments always appreciated!


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